


Stick of Truth Porn

by hollycomb



Category: South Park
Genre: Cock Worship, Costumes, Dirty Talk, Gnomes, Hurt/Comfort, Inanimate Object Porn, Kings & Queens, Large Cock, Licking, M/M, Macro/Micro, Magic, Mini, Role-Playing Game, Roleplay, Shrinking, Size Difference, Size Kink, Topping from the Bottom, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:33:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1386115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/pseuds/hollycomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porny stories inspired by The Stick of Truth game! Multiple pairings featured and more to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wizard/Paladin (Cartman/Butters)

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many ideas for porny stories revolving around the boys still playing their game as they get older. I'll add more here as I finish them.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who heals the Healer?

If Cartman had a nickel for every time Butters has pissed him the fuck off, he'd be able to buy and fully operate five private amusement parks. It's sort of what Butters does, when he isn't just doing Cartman's bidding: gets underfoot, screws things up, and goes too easy on their enemies. Cartman has never hesitated to tear Butters a new asshole when he under-performs as a minion, but he's also never fired the little shit, so he figures their relationship is pretty symbiotic.  
  
They're in ninth grade now, a dozen or so neighborhood kids still clinging to the old game in a quieted down way, and Cartman just learned that word for a vocab quiz. Symbiotic: an interdependent relationship, such as those puny fish that suck the parasites off of awesome killer sharks. He immediately thought of himself (the shark) and Butters (the fish), and it was one of the few words he got correct on the quiz, which he didn't study for and failed.  
  
So he's surprised when Butters goes home early one day just because Cartman made him cry. Admittedly, it's been a few years since the little punk shed tears in the presence of the Grand Wizard, but so fucking what? Making Butters cry is like fart magic: one of Cartman's natural strengths.  
  
"What the hell do you mean, he left?" Cartman asks Kyle, who seems annoyed with him, but what else is new, and also, who cares. "He's not allowed to leave. We're still playing."  
  
"Don't call it playing," Stan says. He's been edging toward getting tired of the game, as if he's so grown up just because he's a second stringer on the JV football team now. Cartman suspects Stan only continues to put up with the game because he likes to fuck Kyle while wearing his warrior armor, which is probably something they do.  
  
"He left," Kyle says. "He doesn't need your permission to go. Especially not after you call him a worthless tampon who couldn't heal a shoe."  
  
"Heh," Cartman says, laughing again at his own excellent pun. "Well, what does he expect when he lets me die in battle like a dog, waiting for his sluggish ass to heal me?"  
  
"He was taking heavy fire and it wasn't even his turn!"  
  
"Yeah, yeah." Cartman turns away from the shrill sound of Kyle and examines his staff. Maybe he was a little harsh on the old paladin, but Butters has taken worse abuse from him, his own parents, and pretty much everyone in town, so what's the big fuckin' deal all of a sudden? "Well, he's demoted to stable boy until further notice, for abandoning his post."

"Whatever," Stan says. "You're an asshole. And we're leaving, too. C'mon, my lord."

"Don't say it like that," Kyle mutters, and then they're gone, leaving Cartman alone in his backyard. He kicks a discarded helmet into the bushes, sudden rage almost overcoming an even suddener sadness. They used to have almost a hundred kids between the two armies, and more after Clyde declared his sovereignty. Now they're down to barely a dozen, and most days Cartman can only get Butters and those two douche nozzles to show up. If Stan really is getting tired of it, he'll drag Kyle out of the game for good sooner or later. Kyle likes to think he's in charge, but it's pretty obvious that he'd follow Stan's dick to the ends of the earth, slavering hungrily after that generic peasant cock even while he calls himself 'king.' Then Cartman will be left with nobody to play with except Butters, only maybe not, because the bitch bolted and might finally be getting fed up with Cartman's unquestioned authority on all matters.

Cartman shakes his head, repulsed by the thought. No, Butters must have just been confused. Maybe he thought Cartman, in his rage, commanded him to leave. He'll never actually -- he's the only one who's always been loyal, so -- no, it's -- everything's fine. Cartman just feels like walking a little fast on the way over to Butters' house, that's all. Sometimes fast walking is simply in order. It's wizardly to make haste. He pulls off his hat as he leaves the backyard, not wanting to fall victim to any onlookers who don't understand wizard culture. Somehow he was a more respected member of the community, wizard hat and all, when he was ten years old. Fuckin' unfair.

The Stotches' cars are still gone when he gets to Butters' house. Butters' mom works until six, and his dad is usually home well after that, 'working late,' also known as 'going to the North Park bathhouse to stick his wiener in a glory hole' and god knows what else. Cartman wrinkles his nose at the thought. He went to that bathhouse once, just out of morbid curiosity, and was taken off guard when the front desk clerk actually waved him in, barely looking at his fake ID. He fled as soon as he saw the interior of the place, which smelled like incense and urine and looked kind of how he pictures the mouth of Hell, all red and dark and drippy. It's not like he wanted his dick touched by some fucking old man, anyway. He just wanted to go in there and laugh at all the losers having weird glory hole sex.

He pulls open the sliding glass door on Butters' back porch. The lock has been subtly broken for years, ever since Cartman made the executive decision to disable it. In the kitchen, he helps himself to some Powerade from the fridge and a couple of choco wafers from the pantry. The house is quiet, so maybe Butters didn't come back here. Cartman grunts with annoyance at the thought of Butters being on the loose, unlocatable. As fucking annoying as that kid is, Cartman doesn't like it when he's not around. It makes him feel less powerful.

He resists the urge to shout through the house like some kind of desperate bitch. Fuck Butters, anyway. If he's here, Cartman will chew him out for running off like a girl on her period. If he's not, Cartman will find something else to do with his afternoon. Like. Jerking off, or whatever.

Butters' bedroom door is half-open, and sniffling can be heard from within. Cartman is relieved to have located his property, but it's brief, because why the hell is this loser still crying? It's not like that was the first time Cartman called him a worthless tampon, which could almost be considered an endearment compared to some of the other insults Cartman has rightfully applied to Butters over the years. He pushes open the bedroom door with his knuckles, quietly, because maybe Butters is beating off or something, and that would be hilarious to see.

Butters is on the bed, but he's fully clothed and does not appear to be pleasuring himself. He's turned away from the door, on his side, facing the wall. Doing that sniffling noise like maybe somebody punched him on his way home. The kid invites random fists in his face like flame attracts moths.

"Butters, what the fuck!" Cartman says as he strides into the room, putting his wizard hat back on as he does. Butters startles and peeks at him, still turned toward the wall. His face is all red and teary and he looks scared. "We were playing the game," Cartman says, feeling suddenly weird about -- something. "You, uh. What the hell do you think you're doing, huh? Walking out on me like that?"

"I'm sorry, Eric." Butters slumps onto his side again, curling in on himself. "I just don't like cryin' in front of you guys."

"What's there to cry about, buttweed? Constructive criticism from the Grand Wizard is part of the game."

"It ain't that, Eric." Butters lets out a watery sigh and drills one of his fists into his eye. "I just. Had kind of a rough day at school, and then. Sometimes gettin' snapped at just sets me off real easy. Sorry about that."

"What happened at school?" Cartman asks, muttering, because he doesn't really care, but he's not sure what he's doing here otherwise, so he might as well ask. He rests his staff against Butters' bedpost and then hangs his hat there, feeling a little stupid for wearing it all of a sudden, though Butters still has his paladin costume on.

"Oh," Butters says, lifting his shoulder to his cheek. "I don't want to tell you," he mumbles.

"Well, tough shit!" Cartman sits heavily on the bed, allowing his manly weight of almost two hundred pounds to demonstrate his authority. The mattress creaks, and Butters moans. "Tell me!" Cartman says, and he whacks Butters on the side.

"Ow!" Butters shrieks, way more loudly than he usually does when Cartman whacks him.

"Oh, Jesus, really? I barely tapped you."

Butters moans again and lifts up his shirt, showing Cartman his side. His skin is all bruised, blue and purple, from the hem of his underwear and up along his ribcage.

"Jesus Christ!" Cartman rears backward. "Do you have a blood disorder or something? I didn't hit you that hard!"

"It's not from you, Eric! Some guys -- at school. They got me down on the floor and started kickin' me. I think they might have broken a rib."

"Broken a -- Butters, what the fuck! What guys? Did you tell your stupid parents?"

"No!" Butters rolls onto his back and sits up, wincing. "And you can't tell them, Eric. My dad says he'll ground me if I keep starting fights at school."

"Oh, sure, right. Like you're ever the one who starts it."

"Well, I tried to tell him they just pick on me for no reason, but he says I must have done something, even though I -- I don't think I did, Eric! They're juniors and they just -- came at me." He moans and puts his hands over his face, his shoulders jumping with silent sobs. Cartman sighs and waits to for the usual relief of not giving a shit to wash over him, but it's not coming. He pictures Butters on the floor near his locker, getting kicked by some assholes who are laughing at his little squeaks of pain. It's the kind of thing he'd normally beat off to, but the reality, sitting here with Butters all bruised up and wibbling, is somehow not arousing at all. In fact, he's starting to feel pretty fucking pissed off.

"I want their names," Cartman says.

"What?" Butters takes his hands from his face, sniffling. "No, Eric, don't do anything. That'll only make it worse. I don't want you killing their parents or nothing."

"Why not? Listen, Butters, you're my paladin. We're on the same team. Anyone who insults your honor is insulting mine, too."

Butters lets his hands drop into his lap and just sits there like he's been lobotomized, staring at Cartman, then smiles and blinks out more tears.

"Oh, Eric," he says, softly. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Shut up, Butters. I'll be right back." Cartman stands with a huff, grabbing his wizard hat from the bedpost.

"Where are you going?"

"Don't worry about it. Stay put."

Downstairs, Cartman gets the package of choco wafers from the pantry, which is so meticulously organized that he has to resist the urge to fuck it all up. Butters doesn't need that right now. He goes to the fridge and scoffs at the skim milk before pouring some into a coffee mug.

“Ey,” he says when he returns to Butters' room. Butters has taken off his paladin sash and the gay headband that he wears when he plays the game. He's sitting on the bed, looking confused when Cartman thrusts the mug of milk and package of choco wafers at him.

“Oh – thanks, Eric.” Butters peers up at him, looking nervous. “But, um. I'm not allowed to eat those cookies before dinner.”

“What, according to your parents? Fuck your parents, Butters. I'm your fucking king. Aren't I?” He barks the question, but he is wondering, really. Butters nods and smiles a little, accepting the choco wafers. “You need to heal,” Cartman says. “That's potion, okay? I'm not a paladin, so. That's the best I can do. Potions.” He's beginning to feel like an idiot for talking like they're playing the game, but maybe it will help. Weird to want to help Butters, but those bruises freaked him the fuck out, which is also weird, because he once carted Butters around town without a care when there was a ninja star stuck in his eye. This seems different, troubling, maybe because someone bigger than him hurt Butters.

“I could teach you,” Butters says after he's eaten a few cookies and downed some of the milk. Cartman is flopped on the bed again, his back propped against the wall.

“Teach me what?”  
  
“To heal people,” Butters says. He's starting to blush, which is never a good sign. “I could teach you a, um, method. That paladins use.”  
  
“The Grand Wizard is capable of learning all forms of magic,” Cartman says, glad that Butters is willing to play along with the game, or anything he comes up with, like always. “So, sure. Go ahead.”  
  
“Alright.” Butters puts the mug and choco wafers on his bedside table and picks up his gay little paladin headband. He puts it on and rubs his hands together, scooting closer to Cartman. “This is how you do it,” he says, and he puts his hands on Cartman's shoulders, pulling him closer. It's a fucking hug, Butters' noodly little arms winding around Cartman, his chin coming to rest on Cartman's shoulder. Butters moans and rubs Cartman's back, squeezing him. “There you go, buddy,” he says, which is something from the game, kind of. He sits back and peers at Cartman as if he's afraid he's about to get another beating. “Th-that's how you do it,” he says. “You wanna try?”  
  
Cartman is prepared to say 'fuck no,' but Butters looks like might cry again if he refuses, and he really doesn't want to deal with that, so he groans and scoops Butters up like an over-sized stuffed animal, squeezing him hard on his uninjured side. He puts his other hand over Butters' bruises and just lets it hover there, pretending he's doing some kind of magic curing spell. Butters sighs like it's working and rests his head on Cartman's shoulder. He goes all limp, which is kind of cool. Cartman has been known to enjoy the sensation of someone physically submitting to him. Butters always smells like a fucking marshmallow; Cartman has often wondered how he does that.  
  
“That's real good, Eric,” Butters says in a tiny voice. He wraps his arms around Cartman's back, sort of trembling and sighing again. “You're a natural.”  
  
“Mph, well. I'm powerful, is all.”  
  
“Yeah, you sure are. I feel better already.”  
  
They just sit there like that, Butters sighing and Cartman patting his back, rolling his eyes up at the ceiling when he begins to feel completely idiotic. Finally he can't stand the humiliation of actually enjoying this – a little – and he lets go of Butters, pulling free from his grip.  
  
“So, yeah,” Cartman says when Butters sits there pressing his fists together, looking kind of smug and worried at the same time. “That's, uh. But you're still going to tell me their names, understand? I'm at least going to slash their tires, break their windshields – they have cars, right?”  
  
“Eric, I don't know! I don't even know their names. They didn't give me their business cards after they kicked my butt. I don't want to think about it, just. Let me show you one more thing. Some more advanced healing.”  
  
“Ah, Christ, what?”  
  
Butters grabs him by the cheeks and plants a kiss right on his fucking lips. It's a peck, like a grandmother type thing, only Butters freezes there, his eyes pinched shut, lips smashed onto Cartman's. Cartman just stares at him, glowering. Butters doesn't budge.  
  
“Butters,” Cartman says, speaking against Butters' mouth. “What the fuck?”  
  
It doesn't really seem that weird, though. It's not like Butters isn't either gay or so desperate for poon that he'll kiss anyone who's around, whether they've got a dick or a cooch or some kind of gross alien genitalia. He pulls back, but not very far, still holding Cartman's face.  
  
“It's a healing thing,” Butters says, suddenly all fucking bold and looking at Cartman like he's slow. “Kissing. It's the next level, you know, after hugging.”  
  
“Yeah? What's level three, a hand job?”  
  
Butters giggles and Cartman rolls his eyes. He grunts in protest when Butters kisses him again, but he doesn't push him away. Whatever. He's getting a boner, probably because of that marshmallow smell, or the fact that he hasn't kissed anyone since he was eight. When Butters licks at him, Cartman opens his mouth to protest, then changes his mind and shoves his tongue into Butters' mouth instead. Butters laughs and cringes.  
  
“No, like this,” he says, licking Cartman again, finding the tip of his tongue this time. Boner intensification is immediate, and Cartman groans, licking back, getting the hang of it.  
  
“How the hell do you know how to do this?” Cartman asks. He takes his wizard hat off, because what the fuck is he doing wearing it right now, what the fuck is happening?  
  
“Well,” Butters says. “I practiced with Kenny a little—”  
  
“Kenny? Sick!” Cartman wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don't shove that wench's poor person germs into my mouth!”  
  
“That was years ago, Eric! He used to show me dirty movies. We'd get kind of worked up sometimes.”  
  
Cartman reels backward, annoyed by how jealous he is that they did that without him. Stan and Kyle did something similar, alone together – Cartman barged into Kyle's bedroom one afternoon to find them stretched out on the bed, Kyle's laptop on Stan's stomach and Stan's annoyingly sizable dick in Kyle's hand. Kyle's demand to 'get out!' was so violently shrill that it left Cartman's ears ringing.  
  
“What's the matter?” Butters asks, moving close again. He sniffles and pets Cartman's cheek.  
  
“Nothing,” Cartman mutters. “Don't – fuck with me, temptress.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I don't know – do you still beat off with Kenny?”  
  
“Beat off? Heck no, Kenny ditched me for Wendy back in middle school. You know that!”  
  
“I knew the Wendy part, but I don't know what kind of fucked up shit goes on between those two. They don't have threesomes with you or anything?”  
  
“Gosh, no, Eric. You don't have threesomes with Stan and Kyle, do you?”  
  
“Sick! No! God!”  
  
“Well, you're the one being silly. C'mere.” Butters brings his face to Cartman's again, nuzzling at his cheek. “I'm hurt real bad, Eric. I needs lots of healing.”  
  
“Sir,” Cartman says, leaning back a bit. “Call me sir, or, no – my lord – and then maybe I'll heal the shit out of you.”  
  
 “But you're not wearing the wizard hat!”  
  
“Fuck the hat, you should be calling me sir anyway.”  
  
“Don't be such a dumb ass, sir,” Butters says, swooning against him. “And maybe I'll give you a level three healing hand job.”  
  
Cartman is sort of bowled over by that, and by everything that follows. He had no idea that Butters was an enthusiastic sexual deviant, though he does have some vague memory of Butters and Kyle being diagnosed with sex addiction in elementary school. He thinks about what it would be like to have both of them working on him like this at the same time and comes in his pants with an embarrassing whinny.  
  
“I am going to kill the next douche that kicks you,” Cartman says when they're lying together afterward. Cartman is skimming his hand over the surface of Butters' bruises, giving them the barest touch with his fingertips. It's pretend healing, but it still feels like something he wants to keep doing, like the other pretend healing that was also sort of real. “Anybody who lays a hand on my paladin is insulting my honor as a king.”  
  
“Mhm-hmm, you said that already.” Butters yawns and snuggles closer to him, all droopy-eyed, like he's going to fall asleep like this, with his face pressed to Cartman's tits. “You better get going, Eric. My mom's gonna be home soon.”  
  
“Are you even listening?” Cartman asks, pinching Butters' ear until he opens his eyes again. “I want to hear about it next time someone stomps you. Immediately. You know I have ways of making people suffer, Butters.”  
  
“Yeah, I know that, Eric.”  
  
“They'll be sorry they ever looked at you wrong. Mark my words.”  
  
“Oh, I'm marking 'em.”  
  
More like he's falling asleep, Cartman's bicep going numb under the weight of Butters' head. Cartman grunts and extracts himself when he hears the garage opening for Butters' mother's car. Butters gropes at him, and Cartman pats his fluffy head.  
  
“The king is needed elsewhere,” Cartman says. He's gonna go home and beat off before dinner, probably to the thought of Butters and Kyle both lapping at his dick while Stan watches jealously. But as far as real life goes, this thing here in Butters' bed is pretty good. “Report for duty tomorrow at my house. I'll be walking you to school. You're on paladin probation, okay, for letting yourself get beat up and making my kingdom look weak.”  
  
“You sound like my dad,” Butters mumbles. Cartman grunts and prepares to tell Butters to shut the fuck up, that he's nothing like that asshole, but he has a point, sort of.  
  
“Well, fine, that's fine, but unlike your butthole dad, I'm gonna kill all your enemies. Roast them in the flames of the Dragonshout and – oh, shit.” He can hear Butters' mother coming in through the side door from the garage, keys jangling.  
  
“I'll see you tomorrow, my lord,” Butters says. He sits up to wave at Cartman drowsily.  
  
“Quite right, merciful paladin,” Cartman says, and he bolts, slipping out the front door when he hears Mrs. Stotch in the kitchen.  
  
He cuts through backyards on the way home, feeling energetic and uncharacteristically spry, despite the half-dried come in his underwear. He leaps over the short fence between Tweek and Christophe's houses, bounces off of Craig's little sister's mini trampoline as he cuts diagonally across the Tuckers' backyard, and even runs through the Garden of Betrayal that he's been forbidden from entering by a court order enforceable by the South Park police, because fuck them! Even though he forgot his wizard hat in Butters' room, all the way home he feels like: here comes the goddamn king.


	2. Human/Elf (Stan/Kyle)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Kyle needs his loyal warrior to provide some stress relief after a bad day at school.

It's not exactly rare for Kyle to get pissed off during the school day, but today he's particularly furious. Absolutely nothing went right, and the fact that he was actually in a good mood when he woke up this morning makes it all worse. He's silently fuming for the first half mile, Stan walking beside him and eating from a bag of honey mustard pretzels. Kyle really hates those things and the way they make Stan's breath smell, but he's censoring those thoughts for now. He has a bad habit of blowing up at Stan when he's mad about other things.  
  
"You sure you don't want one?" Stan asks, holding a pretzel near Kyle's face. He rears away and shakes his head.  
  
"I just can't believe the fucking nerve of Bebe," Kyle says, finally.  
  
"I know, dude. Totally weak."  
  
"She doesn't even want to go to college. She told me that. Who runs for student council president for any reason other than putting it on your college application? Huh? She's doing it just to spite me. She has a crush on you and all that shit."  
  
"I don't know about that," Stan says. He's crunching pretzels way too loudly.  
  
"Don't act modest, you know all the girls at school want your dick."  
  
"Sucks for them, I guess. I still think you could beat her."  
  
"Oh, right, like I even have a chance of winning the election with fucking Bebe running against me. She has wide appeal, Stan, among many different groups. She's all feminist and shit so the intellectuals will vote for her, but she's also a hot cheerleader who throws parties, so the philistines will support her, too."  
  
"Am I a philistine or an intellectual?" Stan asks.  
  
"Don't change the subject, Stan, and you're neither, because you're on my side. Right?"  
  
"You seriously have to ask?"  
  
Kyle sighs and allows Stan to squeeze his shoulder supportively. Maybe he'll request a back rub once they get to Stan's house. He sneaks a glance over at Stan, starting to have some ideas.  
  
"Stanley," Kyle says. "You're chewing with your mouth open."  
  
"Oh -- sorry."  
  
"Just -- stop eating those things, right now. I command you to get rid of them."  
  
Stan glances over at Kyle and grins when he sees him blushing. Kyle shrugs, pretending he doesn't need this badly right now. Their game: they never stopped playing, secretly.

"Of course, my lord," Stan says. "I will dispose of the offending snack at once." He does a subtle bow and jogs over to a trash bin that's on the curb for pick up, tossing the remaining pretzels into it. Kyle is flushed, just watching this. He's not sure what he did to deserve a loyal boy who drops everything to obey his wishes, but at this point he's confident that he couldn't live without him.  
  
"Thank you, Stanley," Kyle says. He straightens his back, taking on his kingly posture. "And once we're back in the kingdom, I'll require you to clean your teeth."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"We should hurry," Kyle says, looking around. "We're in danger here, in the open lands."  
  
"I'll protect you, my lord," Stan says, so quietly that it sounds dirty, and Kyle nods, swallowing.  
  
When they arrive at Stan's house, he unlocks the front door and holds it open for Kyle, bowing as he enters. Kyle hopes no one witnessed this, though he's unwilling to ask Stan not to do it. The house appears to be empty.  
  
"At last," Stan says, locking the door behind them. "We've reached the safety of the keep. Shall I go to the kitchens and have the elves prepare you some food, my lord?"  
  
"No, no." Kyle is eager to be up in the bedroom. "Let's retire to your chambers. My advisors are less likely to look for me there, and I desire the peace of your solitary company, warrior."  
  
"Yes, sir." Stan bows. "Would you like me to convey you there?"  
  
"I can walk," Kyle says, because he only likes to be physically carried around by Stan under extreme circumstances. "You go ahead of me and clean your teeth as I requested. I want not a hint of honey mustard on your tongue, understood?"  
  
"Your word is my command, my lord."  
  
While Stan brushes his teeth, Kyle goes into Stan's bedroom and prepares himself. He tears off his clothes and struts around in his underwear for a few minutes, still enjoying the fact that he has permission to be nude in Stan's bedroom. They started fooling around at thirteen, when they were playing "the game" one night, muttering together in the dark about their fealty and devotion to each other. Stan asked for permission to kiss the king, and Kyle granted it gladly. He'd already been in love with Stan for years, and the kiss felt very overdue, but wanting it so badly and for so long made it that much better.  
  
He goes to Stan's closet and roots around until he finds his elf king robe in the back. His old crown is there, too, but it doesn't fit anymore, and was never really comfortable to wear when reclining. He hears the water shut off in the bathroom across the hall and hurries to arrange himself on the bed, stretching out in a king-like manner, his robe open enough to show his naked chest. Kyle doesn't like his chest -- scrawny and pale with big nipples and some scraggly red hairs -- but Stan does, a lot, for some reason.  
  
"Come closer, Stanley," Kyle says when Stan pauses in the doorway, going down to his knee with a bow. "And close the chamber door. I desire your company in private."  
  
"Yes, sire." Stan closes the door, and though he's just wearing his school clothes Kyle can so clearly picture him the way he always has during the game: in impressive, battle-worn armor, a sword strapped across his back and the elf kingdom's crest showing proudly on his helmet and chest plate. Stan walks to the bed a bit stiffly, as if he's imagining himself in his armor, too.  
  
"Undress for me," Kyle says coolly, feeling powerful already. Fuck the student council presidency: this is his true calling, kingship over a single perfect servant. "Tell me about your day, my knight," Kyle says as Stan peels his clothes off.  
  
"I had several run ins with the human kingdom," Stan says. "The false king was present during one encounter."  
  
"Ah, the fat ass? Did you smite him?"  
  
"Yes, sir. I withstood his pathetic attacks and relentlessly returned them until his armor was gone. He was begging for mercy by the time I was through with him and his men."  
  
"Mhmm, good. And did you show it?"  
  
"I allowed him to live, but only for the pleasure of vanquishing him again."  
  
"I see. And vanquish him again you shall. Stanley, I must tell you - without your leadership I fear my army would be inferior to his. Your human-born skills make all the difference in battle."  
  
"Thank you, my lord. And thank you for trusting me to lead the elf army. Another king might have been suspicious of a human raised by wolves and badgers."  
  
"Come onto the bed, son of wolves," Kyle says, making room for him. "I want to feel your strength under my hands."  
  
Stan smiles as if he's actually surprised that he's being allowed to get so close to Kyle, who has always admired how completely Stan loses himself to this game. Stan still gets frustrated with real life at times, and occasionally to the point of requiring medication. He has a standing prescription for Lexapro that his mother sometimes fills. Kyle hates it. The medicine makes it almost impossible for Stan to get hard, and he never wants to play the game when he's doped into blank complacency.  
  
Kyle just touches Stan's chest and arms for a while, propped up on his elbow while Stan lies on his back. Stan's breath is slightly choppy, as if he's nervous under the adoring gaze of his king, and he's hard inside his underwear. Kyle is, too, but he's got the folds of his robe to hide his erection. Stan's is obvious, and Kyle is enjoying the fact that he's exposed like this, waiting patiently for Kyle to touch him there.  
  
"All of this muscle was forged in the fires of war," Kyle says, squeezing Stan's right bicep. He flexes in Kyle's grip, making himself bigger and harder for him. "Grit and strife shaped your body -- and yet, you're so beautiful."  
  
"If I am, it's because I've fought for something I love," Stan says.  
  
"And what's that?"  
  
"You, my lord."  
  
Kyle kisses him then, possessively, tipping Stan's face toward his with two fingers. What he gets off on most during the game is the idea that he owns Stan, like Stan is a weapon in his personal inventory, or a toy to be played with whenever he wants. In real life, he doesn't feel all that confident about his ability to keep Stan, who seems to get better looking and more universally adored every year. He's always afraid Stan is going to wake up from the spell Kyle somehow cast on him and realize that he can have anyone he wants.  
  
"Does your sword need polishing?" Kyle asks, his fingertips teasing over the head of Stan's cock, through the cloth of his cotton briefs. Stan nods, his eyes already hazy, pupils fattening when Kyle continues to touch him there.  
  
"My sword is available for whatever use you have for it, sir," Stan says. He gets so breathless and cute when they play the game like this. If they're just having regular sex he's more decisive and dominant, and usually silent except for grunts and moans. Kyle likes that, too.  
  
"Hmm," Kyle says, clawing his hand around Stan's bulge. "Your blade is so sturdy and long." His ass clenches wantingly when he massages Stan's big dick, and he tries to think of what to say next. It gets tough to come up with good quips when he's really turned on like this. "I want to taste it," Kyle says, lowering his face to Stan's.  
  
"It's yours to taste, my lord."  
  
"That it is. Like all of you, warrior." He circles one finger around Stan's stiff left nipple as he says so, then lowers his mouth to lick and nibble on it gently. Stan sighs and flexes underneath him, his thighs spreading wide when Kyle's hand snakes down to fondle his balls. They're warm and firm and perfect, like all of Stan. "Jesus," Kyle says, and he moves down to lick Stan's ribs when he sucks his breath in hard. "You're so -- I would mourn the loss forever if your body was marred in battle."  
  
"It would be - haa - a small price to pay to protect yours, my lord."  
  
"You needn't flatter your king, knight."  
  
"It's not mere flattery." Stan's eyes pop open and he gives Kyle a serious stare that takes him out of the game a little. "May I show you?" he asks, meek again.  
  
"Show me?"  
  
"May I worship your body as I do your crown, my lord?"  
  
"Mnhm, yes. In fact, I command it."  
  
Stan sits up and takes Kyle's shoulders, guiding him down onto his back. He keeps his eyes locked on Kyle's as he pushes the robe off, coaxing Kyle up a bit so that he can ease it down to his lower back, the sleeves catching on Kyle's elbows. Kyle is already breathing hard, his chest exposed to the hungry look in Stan's eyes.  
  
"You have the rare beauty of the elves," Stan says, drawing his hand from Kyle's throat down to his trembling stomach. "My mouth grows wet when I see you like this, baring your skin for me."  
  
"Put your mouth on me," Kyle says, perhaps clumsily, and Stan kisses him hard. He pulls free from Kyle's lips before Kyle is ready, but he's glad when Stan licks and nips at his neck, sucking at the skin there, leaving his mark. "Stanley," Kyle moans, pushing his hand into Stan's hair. Stan moves lower, reading Kyle's mind, going for his nipples. Kyle groans when Stan drags his teeth over one, slow, rolling the other between his thumb and forefinger.  
  
"You set me into a frenzy, my lord," Stan says. His voice seems to get lower and gruffer when they do this; Kyle isn't sure if it's the game or pure arousal or some of both.  
  
"Don't hold back," Kyle says. "Put your sword to my lips. I still haven't tasted you."  
  
Stan nods and shucks his underwear off, tossing them onto the bedroom floor. He straddles Kyle's chest, and Kyle sits up onto his elbows, panting against Stan's wet cockhead when it bumps against his mouth. Stan is uncut, wide and long. It took them three tries to get him all the way into Kyle when they first decided to try butt sex. Now Kyle can take it rough, after lots of practice, in both his ass and his mouth.  
  
"Your musk is intoxicating," Kyle says, and he feels a little stupid when Stan smirks, breaking character. Kyle opens wide and takes Stan's dick into his mouth, keeping his gaze locked on Stan's, watching that smirk drain away.  
  
"My king," Stan says, murmuring this affectionately, his hand going to Kyle's curls. He pets them and hums with pleasure as Kyle takes him in deeper, bobbing his head back before pressing down again, getting a little more in each time. "My king, my king," Stan says, his eyes closing as his head falls back. Kyle rubs Stan's bare ass, giving him permission to move his hips. He loves being pinned to the bed like this, unable to lift his arms as they're trapped in the robe, which Stan is kneeling on. He gags a little and Stan slows his thrusts, fucking Kyle's mouth more shallowly. This only makes Kyle drool greedily and press forward, wanting to feel Stan against the back of his throat again. His eyes begin to water when Stan snaps his hips again, wanting to fuck him hard. Kyle can feel him barely holding back, his thighs trembling around Kyle's chest. Kyle wants it, too, but not in his mouth. He pulls off of Stan's cock, breathless and swollen, his chin soaked in spit.  
  
"My lord, oh--" Stan shimmies backward and wipes Kyle's chin with his hand. "Forgive me."  
  
"Shhh, no apologies." Kyle takes two of Stan's fingers into his mouth and suckles at them, whimpering a little at how inadequately they fill his mouth, compared to Stan's cock. Stan whines, too, softly. "Remove my underthings," Kyle says when Stan's fingers slide free. "I want you to attend to my staff, my sac, and then my sheath."  
  
Stan is obscenely good with his mouth, and Kyle has to be careful not to get loud enough to be heard from the street outside as Stan works on him. Stan doesn't share Kyle's enthusiasm for choking on a big dick, but he likes kissing his way up and down the shaft of Kyle's, and licking around the rim of his mushroomy cockhead. Sometimes he sucks on the loose skin at the juncture between Kyle's dick and balls like it's a clit, and Kyle sort of loves that, though he's very glad he doesn't have an actual vagina. They once had a discussion about gender wherein Stan admitted that he would happily fuck Kyle as a girl, too, which made Kyle a little sad, mostly because he wasn't able to say the same for Stan. He wouldn't want to live in a world where he didn't have access to Stan's dick, his hard chest, and his arms, which are starting to get big for real, the way Kyle pictured them when he imagined warrior Stan striking down armies with his sword.  
  
"Ah, god," Kyle cries when Stan laps at his perineum, which always drives him insane. It's such a perfect tease, all that wet heat focused on the place just above his clenching, needy, tingling hole. Kyle was so embarrassed to ask Stan to rim him that the first time he did it was in the context of the game. Then he was so nervous about being clean that he made Stan take him to the 'enchanted waterfall,' also known as the shower, to do it.  
  
"Are you prepared, my lord?" Stan asks, lifting his head after he's just barely teased his tongue against the upper rim of Kyle's hole. "Shall I administer to the royal sheath, now?"  
  
Kyle has to hold in a laugh; he makes a mental note to tell Stan not to call it that, later. Right now he doesn't want to break the moment, so he looks down between his spread open knees and nods.  
  
"Make haste," Kyle says. "I grow impatient to feel you inside me."  
  
"I must open you first, my lord," Stan says, tickling his fingers over Kyle's hole. "Your silken elvish insides are too delicate and much too tight to take a barbaric human cock without preamble."  
  
Kyle loses it then and laughs hard, pressing his fist over his mouth guiltily. Stan beams at him, then bites at the inside of his thigh, pressing his teeth into the soft flesh there until Kyle gasps.  
  
"Oh -- Stanley," Kyle murmurs when Stan's tongue finally brushes him where he's wanted it most, the first tickling passes making him shiver. "Yes, very good, my faithful -- fahh, my knight. Your skill in this task is as impressive as your, um. Battle skills." Kyle is starting to lose it, and he gives up any semblance of kingly dignity by taking hold of his legs and lifting them to his chest, angling himself up into Stan's mouth. Stan hums into him, fucking him with tongue, and he replaces it with wet fingertips when Kyle whines and arches.  
  
"The potion, my lord," Stan says. "The one that allows for the fusing of two souls." Kyle fumbles for the lube that he keeps hidden under his mattress, annoyed with himself for not getting it out earlier. It's real, grown-up lube, not just some boyish lotion bottle. It's called Perfect Slick, Orange Blossom Honey flavor; Kenny acquired it for him.  
  
"Use this to touch the deepest interior of your king," Kyle says, passing the lube to Stan. "Where only you may go. Stroke my welcoming walls with your fingertips, knight. Ease the way for your flesh to enter."  
  
For a moment Kyle is afraid Stan will burst into laughter, but he just sort of growls and kisses Kyle's mouth before slipping back down to apply the lube. Kyle sighs and hoists his legs up to his chest again when Stan's finger pushes into him. It's such an easy, comforting feeling now. It's hard to believe that it used to be so terrifying, letting Stan in like this, even a little. Kyle is still tight and relatively small, and Stan's dick always burns when it's first going in, but never enough to stop Kyle from wanting it deeper, all the way. It's more than just the physical sensation, which is excellent once Kyle relaxes around all that pressure. It's like they really do join souls when they're chest to chest, connected, Kyle wide open and Stan contained within him. It still blows Kyle away every time, that feeling.  
  
"Your king is ready," Kyle says when he can't stand the feeling of just two fingers any longer. "Sheath yourself inside me, knight. Take power from this body that you can carry into battle."  
  
"I shall give you my power, too, my lord," Stan says, and he gently extracts his fingers, crawling up to hover over Kyle. "The power of my human seed," he says, so gravely that Kyle can't manage to laugh, though he knows, distantly, that what Stan just said is fairly hilarious. They've simply reached the point in the game where they're both totally lost to the fantasy: Kyle is here in his most trusted knight's bedchamber, offering his body to the man who fights for his kingdom -- for him. It's the ultimate sign of fidelity. In the story they made up for their characters, Kyle ran away from his elf parents as a little boy, lonely at court and unwilling to participate in dry royal functions. He got quickly in over his head, and would have been eaten by a bear if Stan and his wolf family hadn't come to his rescue. Over the following weeks, Kyle would sneak back into the woods, slowly earning Stan's trust by bringing him elvish food and other little gifts. The trust between them is now absolute, as evidenced by the fact that the king opens his legs for Stan, gifting him with the pleasure of his body after difficult battles that leave him weary.  
  
"My king," Stan says when Kyle is sweating beneath him, feeling that burn as Stan enters. "Your warmth is so tight around me. I fear you must be straining."  
  
"Shh, worry not." Kyle pets Stan's face and kisses his hot cheeks, nuzzling at him. "Trust your king to enclose you. I am strong enough. Your width was simply not designed for this narrow elven passage. But we -- ah, Stan -- we have redesigned the world for each other, haven't we?"  
  
"We have, my lord," Stan says, and he slides all the way in, kissing Kyle when he squeaks and winces. "You okay?" Stan murmurs against his lips, and Kyle understands the question as something that's taking place outside of the game. He nods drowsily and bumps his nose against Stan's cheek, taking a deep breath and exhaling it slowly.  
  
"You're so big," Kyle says, his voice smaller now, less kingly. "My big, strong knight." He sucks at Stan's lower lip and peers up into his eyes, basking in Stan's adoration in a way that he can only fully accept when they're in the game, or when Stan is in him.  
  
"I live to serve you, my king," Stan says, shifting inside him. "And to be with you, entirely, like this."  
  
"Entirely," Kyle says, fond of that word for this closeness. He nods and sighs, bringing his legs up to wrap them around Stan's back. "Fuck your king, Stanley," he says, making his voice stern again. "Pummel my walls. Give yourself pleasure within them."  
  
Stan goes slow at first, though Kyle has told him he doesn't need to. Once he's all in and Kyle has a minute to adjust, he can take it hard. But today he's not in a hurry, though he does have a lot of homework and Stan's mom will be home from work soon. Kyle accepts Stan's leisurely pace anyway, capturing his lips on every downward thrust.  
  
"Does my sword of flesh please you, my lord?" Stan asks as he picks up the pace a little, huffing powerful breaths into Kyle's open mouth.  
  
"Yes, Stanley, very much. Your thickness, ahh -- your length. You fill your king so well, nhm. So deeply."  
  
"I revel in the chance to give you pleasure," Stan says. He takes hold of Kyle's cock, finally, and fucks him harder when he groans. "You're so full here, too," Stan says, squeezing him.  
  
"Do you -- ngh, do you credit yourself?"  
  
"I believe I do arose you, sir."  
  
Kyle laughs a little, because that was almost Spock-like. "You do," he says. "Even in battle, ahh, Stan. When I look out across the fields and see you wielding your sword, smashing down my enemies, your teeth grit, eyes hard, blade flashing -- hahh, yeah -- my cock grows stiff under my robes, watching you fight for me."  
  
Stan growls and fucks him hard, harder, and Kyle screams when he comes in Stan's pumping fist. He wants Stan to keep going, to fuck him like this all day, all night, all the time, with both of their heads swimming in this fantasy of Stan taking a real sword to Kyle's frustrations and cutting them down to nothing. Kyle moans when he feels Stan's cock jump against the rim of his hole, swelling as he comes. They're still mastering the art of lasting longer than a few minutes once Stan is in him.  
  
Kyle cradles Stan against him as his muscles loosen and he sinks onto Kyle's chest, panting. He strokes Stan's hair, drawing his fingers through the sweat that's gathered at his nape, and leaves his legs wrapped around Stan's back, not wanting to let him go.  
  
"My king," Stan says, his voice muffled against Kyle's neck. "You treat me so -- so well, letting me have this."  
  
"It's the least I can do." Kyle gives Stan a prim kiss on the forehead, ready to end the game. It always takes Stan longer to come out of it, and Kyle sometimes thinks he could play for days at a time, never breaking character. Maybe, someday, if they live together -- they could play together all weekend, closed up in the privacy of their little kingdom.  
  
"I wish you could stay here in my bedchamber," Stan says. He's stroking Kyle's side absently, sighing. "In the middle of the night. I want to be with you, guarding you."  
  
"You can guard me fine from here," Kyle says. "But I want that, too. Stan. So much. I can't wait to share a bed with you." He makes himself stop talking; that's pretty presumptuous, at seventeen, and Stan is still playing the game. Kyle nudges him, sitting up a little. "Your mom will be home soon, dude."  
  
"My mother is a wolf," Stan says, but he gives Kyle a goofy smile when he pushes himself up onto his arms, sliding free of him. "But okay. You're right. Sir."  
  
"Don't call me that if we're not playing. It's too weird."  
  
"Kay, sorry."  
  
They clean up and lie in Stan's bed for a while after they've dressed, kissing and muttering together about assorted real life bullshit. Stan's mother has returned; Kyle can hear her down in the kitchen, getting dinner started. He sits up with a grunt when he hears Randy's car in the driveway.  
  
"I should get home," Kyle says, stretching. "I've got a shitload of work to do."  
  
"Fuck," Stan moans, rubbing his eyes. "Fucking homework. That stupid Latin project. Why'd I take Latin?"  
  
"'Cause I'm taking it."  
  
"Oh, yeah."  
  
"I should drop out of the race," Kyle says. He glances down at Stan. "For president. Bebe will beat me."  
  
"That's fucking lame, though. You're the best leader ever."  
  
"Of imaginary elves, maybe."  
  
"Nah, of everything. Of me, anyway."  
  
"You really think of me as your leader?" Kyle says, not sure how he feels about that. Stan shrugs and sits up, gathering Kyle against him.  
  
"I like it when you send me into battle," Stan says. "And I just. I trust you, seriously. To always know the right thing to do."  
  
"That's a lot of pressure."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"Don't be sorry! I mean, yeah. I usually have good plans. Thanks for noticing."  
  
They kiss, and Stan walks Kyle to the end of the driveway, where they kiss again. Everyone in town knows about them. They knew even before Stan and Kyle did, in some cases. Kyle waves and jogs over to his house, where he can see his mother through the living room window, nagging Ike, who is slumped on the couch like a boneless thing. He stands watching them for a minute and decides that he really is going to drop out of the presidential race. It's been a pain in the ass to try to stay ahead of Cartman's attempts to deface all his campaign posters, and he doesn't really need the title anyway. He's got more important authority elsewhere.


	3. Mini Kyle (Stan/Kyle + Cartman)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle gets shrunk by the gnomes. Stan must protect tiny Kyle from being crushed, and from Cartman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm always like 'this is insane!' but this is really insane. It's mostly Stan/Kyle with a brief Cartman/Kyle interlude.

Stan always worries when Kyle doesn't show up to school without giving him a heads up, and he can't remember the last time it happened. He tries texting Kyle four times during the school day, and is in a near panic when his last class lets out and he still doesn't have a response.

“Where the hell is Jew boy?” Cartman asks when Stan is at his locker, throwing his books into his bag and planning to go directly to Kyle's house. “Sick again?”

“I don't know,” Stan says, and he gives Cartman a hateful look. If Kyle has actually disappeared, Cartman will be Stan's number one suspect in terms of potential involvement. “He'd better be okay.”

“Why are you looking at me like that? I didn't kill him.”

Stan walks fast on the way to Kyle's house, as quickly as possible without breaking into an actual run, and he's surprised that Cartman is able to keep up. Cartman asks questions about Kyle's whereabouts and makes stupid comments the entire way there, and Stan is silent in response.

“What's your problem?” Cartman asks, breathless by the time they're in sight of Kyle's house. “You think you're better than me now?”

“No.” Well, yes. “I'm just worried. Will you get out of here? I'm going to check on Kyle.”

“Yeah, me too. Real worried about the little bitch, let's go check it out.”

Stan doesn't want Cartman with him when he knocks on the Broflovskis' front door, but he can't exactly forbid him from standing there. Kyle's house isn't Stan's property, though sometimes it feels that way, as if their neighboring households have always been part of the same little kingdom that Kyle rules and Stan protects, like the game they played as kids. Stan really misses it sometimes.

“Oh, boys,” Sheila says when she answers the door. Stan's heart is plunged into ice when he sees that she's been crying. She's still sniffling, a balled up tissue in her hand. “You – you must be looking for Kyle.”

“Is he okay?” Stan asks, his voice shaking a little already.

“I'm afraid not.” Sheila makes an aggrieved sound and holds the tissue over the bridge of her nose. “We just don't know what happened – we don't even know who to call!”

“He's hurt?” Stan's heart starts to pound, and he feels a profound sense of failure, as if it really always has been his job to protect Kyle. “He's sick, or—?”

“Dead?” Cartman blurts, and “Ow, Jesus!” when Stan hits him hard.

“He's – oh, I don't know how to say it.” Sheila takes a deep breath and looks into the house behind her. “Maybe you should just come in and see what I'm talking about.”

“Kyle?” Stan says, unwilling to wait for a more decisive invitation. He hurries into the house, pushing around Sheila and heading for the stairs.

“He's not up in his room, Stanley,” Sheila says. “He's in the kitchen with his father.”

Stan changes course and half-jogs to the kitchen, annoyed when he runs in to find Gerald sitting alone at the table, looking tired and worried. Cartman comes up behind Stan, looks into the kitchen and screams.

“Jesus Christ!” Cartman shouts, as if he's just seen a ghost. Stan opens his mouth to ask him what the hell he's freaking out about, but then he sees it: on the kitchen table, beside Gerald's coffee cup, is a very lifelike little Kyle doll, sitting on the table and blinking at Stan sadly.

“What's Cartman doing here?” Kyle asks, his voice squeaky and small.

Stan faints.

When he regains consciousness he's being helped into a seat at the Broflovski kitchen table, where Sheila tearfully explains that they just found Kyle like this in the morning and are starting to think whatever made him tiny isn't going to wear off on its own.

“It was gnomes!” Kyle says. “I woke up and they were stealing my underwear! I tried to scare them off and they shrunk me.”

“Kyle, that's just crazy,” Sheila says. Kyle huffs and throws out his little arms.

“And this isn't? Look at me, ma! It's real! You want to find out how to change me back? Go talk to the gnomes who live in the walls.”

“Oh, my god,” Sheila says. She puts her hands over her face and moans. “I need a drink.”

“We don't know what to do,” Gerald says, looking to Stan as if he might. “If we call the cops, they might send in FBI scientists who will want to study Kyle's condition. We don't want anybody sticking him in a hamster cage.”

“No – yeah.” Stan still feels dizzy. He keeps wanting to stretch his arms across the table, put his hands out and have Kyle hurry into them. Kyle isn't even as big as Gerald's coffee cup, only four or five inches tall. His clothes have shrunk along with him: Stan recognizes his usual blue and green pajama pants and the thin white t-shirt that he sleeps in. He can see Kyle's tiny nipples poking through the fabric; he must be cold.

“You'd better not tell anyone, fat ass,” Kyle says, pointing at Cartman. “I'll fucking kill you if you do.”

“Kyle, language,” Sheila says tiredly. “I'm sure Eric will do what he can to protect you. Won't you, dear?” she says, an edge of a threat in her tone. Cartman nods. He's wide-eyed, staring at Kyle, speechless for the first time in his life.

“Should we try to find the gnomes?” Stan asks, and Sheila snorts.

“At least Stan believes me,” Kyle says, walking across the table toward him. “Dude, yeah – I think we've got to. I'll tell them they can have all the goddamn underpants they want, the little freaks. But I'm scared to go in there alone.”

“In where?” Gerald asks.

“There's a hole in the wall at the back of my closet. I saw them run in there after they shrunk me. They were laughing their heads off, little bastards. They had pick axes and stuff. I'm afraid they might chop me up.”

“Here's what we do,” Cartman says, suddenly coming out of his trance. “We tear open the wall and stomp on them.”

“You can't just stomp them, dumb ass, I need them to turn me back first!”

“I don't know, Kyle. I think you might just be stuck like this from now on. Sorry, brah.”

“No, we can negotiate with them somehow,” Stan says, feeling insane. He really wants to pick Kyle up and cradle him gently in his hands; he seems too vulnerable in the middle of the kitchen table, staring up at everyone who is towering over him.

“I'm going to do some research,” Gerald says. “There's got to be something on WebMD about this, right? Kyle can't be the first.”

“I'm going to talk to our rabbi,” Sheila says. “At least I know I can trust him to keep the secret, and maybe he knows some kind of spiritual solution.”

“Oh, please,” Kyle says.

“As if that's any more ridiculous than your stories about gnomes, young man! Once you're full-sized again we're going to have a very long discussion about your lack of faith.”

“Boys,” Gerald says. “Will you keep an eye on Kyle while we're trying to find a solution? We don't want to leave him alone while he's like this. Someone could step on him.”

“Sure,” Stan says. “I'll spend the night.”

“Yeah, me too,” Cartman says.

“No,” Kyle says. “You're not invited.”

“Somebody's got to run and get your parents if something goes wrong,” Cartman says, jabbing his fat palm with one finger. “Right? And someone else will need to stay and watch you while the other guy is getting help.”

“So call Butters,” Kyle says coldly. Cartman scoffs.

“No, Kyle, he's right,” Sheila says. “And we don't want to get anyone else involved. Butters is a gossip like his mother, and we certainly don't want Stephen and Linda involved. I know you and Eric had your problems as kids, but he's grown up to be a very sweet boy.”

“Why thank you,” Cartman says, batting his eyelashes. Kyle fumes, gritting his teeth. Stan sighs.

An hour later, they're up in Kyle's room, Gerald downstairs reading WebMD articles and Sheila off at her meeting with the rabbi. Stan has stretched out on Kyle's bed and is watching _Jurassic Park_ on Kyle's laptop. Kyle is watching, too, sitting on Stan's shoulder. The closeness of Kyle, and the fact that he's sitting _on_ Stan, his miniaturized ass warm on Stan's shoulder, is both strange and very comfortable. This is one of their favorite movies, something that reliably calms them both down when they're in crisis. Cartman is on Kyle's desktop computer, researching gnomes.

“Oh, shit,” Cartman says. “This thing says gnomes are earth elementals. That means they can move through packed dirt like it's air.”

“Like that's the biggest problem in this situation?” Kyle says. “Is there anything about how to bribe them to help you?”

“They guard mines and precious underground treasures. So basically they hoard riches – hey, Kyle, you've got that in common with them. You could offer them your Jew gold.”

“Shut up,” Stan says. “Now's not the fucking time.”

“Oh, sorry, Stan.” Cartman swivels around in Kyle's desk chair and glares at them. “I guess it's the time for watching stupid movies and doing nothing productive about the situation.”

“We have to wait until nighttime, anyway,” Kyle says. “That's when they come out.”

“Dude.” Stan turns to look at Kyle, pierced all over again by the smallness of him. “How long have you been seeing gnomes at night?”

“I don't know. I used to see them a lot as a kid, but I was scared of them. Shit, I should have stuck with my instincts, there.” He sighs and leans against Stan's neck, which makes Stan flush all over.

“Is this okay?” Kyle asks, mumbling. Cartman has his back to them again; he's checking his Facebook page. Stan nods, and Kyle snuggles closer. “Your pulse is so fucking loud,” Kyle says, his little ear pressed to Stan's throat.

“Uh. Sorry.”

“Don't be sorry.” Kyle pets him; Stan shivers. “It's comforting,” Kyle says, very quietly.

“Good,” Stan says, and he shifts his knees apart behind the laptop screen. It's been a long time since he's thought, _what would it be like to fuck Kyle?_ Something about having him small like this, in danger and clinging to Stan's neck for warmth, is bringing all that old, sad speculation back.

“So the other thing about gnomes—” Cartman says, turning from the computer, but he stops when he sees Kyle curled up against Stan's neck. “Oh, Jesus. Stop humping him, Kyle. This is serious.”

“Why do you care?” Kyle asks, lifting his head a little. “I'm surprised you're not trying to crush me while you have the chance.”

“Bitch, please. I could crush you any day of the week, full-sized or not. I'm just, uh. If we have a gnome infestation in South Park I need to know how to fight them, in case they come after me.”

“Not even underpants gnomes would want to touch your soiled boxers,” Kyle says. Cartman snarls at him.

“What was that?” Stan asks when he hears a noise like a tiny buzz saw whirring. Kyle sighs.

“I'm hungry,” he says. “I haven't eaten since I got shrunk.”

“Jesus, Kyle. I'll bring you something – what do you want?”

“I don't know, a miniature cheeseburger?” Kyle gives him an exasperated look. “Just get yourself a snack, and I'll eat the crumbs or whatever.”

“Get me something, too,” Cartman says, looking at the computer again. “Nothing too Jew-y.”

“Fuck you, fat ass, get your own food.” If Stan goes down to the kitchen, Cartman will be alone up here with Kyle, and being one hundred times bigger than Kyle and therefore all-powerful has got to be one of Cartman's top fantasies. “You're coming with me,” Stan says, and puts his hand against his shoulder. Kyle sighs and steps onto Stan's palm, clinging to Stan's pointer finger when he offers it as a grip. Kyle fills Stan's whole palm; he's warm, blushing. Stan walks downstairs very slowly, with Kyle cupped in both of his hands. His arms are shaking, and he knows Kyle can feel it.

“This is so humiliating,” Kyle says.

“No, it's not.”

“I mean this would happen to me, of all people. You know?”

“No? Why?”

“I'm always getting crapped on, that's why! And I hate that Cartman is here. I feel like he's going to eat me.”

“Dude! I won't let him get near you. Let's just tell him to go home. I can look after you myself.”

“He won't listen. He's impossible to get rid of, like always.”

Stan makes himself a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich on wheat and feeds Kyle tiny bites of it. It's a mess, and Kyle's face is sticky afterward. Stan wants to lick him clean. Instead, he moistens the corner of a paper napkin and lets Kyle use it to wipe his face.

“I need a real shower,” Kyle says. “I can smell myself. How am I going to bathe? The sink?”

“Uh, I guess.” Stan imagines Kyle getting stuck in the drain and scoops him up again, cradling him in two hands. “Or maybe a bowl would be better. Do you want, um. I could fill a bowl with soapy water?”

“Maybe later,” Kyle says miserably.

Sheila arrives home with dinner and no answers from the rabbi, and Gerald hasn't found anything useful on WebMD. Kyle has gotten quiet, and he says he's not hungry when Sheila offers him a thimble-sized portion of ravioli.

“The sun's going down,” Cartman says when he follows Stan up to Kyle's room after dinner, Kyle riding in Stan's hands again. “Does that mean we're about to tangle with these gnome fuckers?”

“I don't know,” Stan says. “Kyle?”

“There's no telling,” Kyle says. “They don't come every night. Jesus, am I really stuck like this?” He peers up at Stan fearfully, and Stan shakes his head, though he has no idea.

In Kyle's room, Stan dresses for bed in some of Kyle's non-miniaturized pajamas, uncomfortable with the fact that Cartman is present. He's arranging a sleeping bag on the floor. They used to have group sleepovers all the time, but it's been a long time since anybody but Stan spent the night here in Kyle's room, and he's feeling possessive and protective, especially with Kyle in this condition.

“Where are you going to sleep, dude?” Stan asks.

“Oh god,” Kyle says. “In the bed? But no, you should sleep there.”

“Kyle, we can both sleep there. It's not like we won't fit.”

“But what if you roll over on me!”

“I wouldn't!” Stan is horrified by the concept, and by the idea that Kyle thinks he's capable of being so careless.

“You might, dude,” Cartman says. “Once you're asleep, you roll over, not knowing where you are, deaf to Kyle's tiny cries of peril, and _splat_. You really want to risk it?”

“No!” Stan says, his stomach lurching. He could have done without the sound effect. “Ugh, fine. Do you have a shoe box or something?”

They dig one out from Kyle's closet and fill it with washcloths for padding. Stan adds one of Kyle's monogrammed handkerchiefs as a blanket and a folded sock for a pillow. He places the shoe box on the bedside table and peers into it sadly, wanting to cuddle little Kyle against his neck again.

“Thanks, dude,” Kyle says glumly, pulling the handkerchief over his legs.

“What do I do if the gnomes come?” Stan asks. Cartman scoffs.

“What the hell do you think?” he says. “Grab one of the little bastards and squeeze him until he either pops like a party favor or turns Kyle back to normal.”

“That's not a bad idea,” Kyle says, and Stan turns out the light, annoyed.

Stan is anxious and can't sleep for the first few hours. He keeps sitting up and checking on Kyle in his box. Kyle seems to be sleeping deeply, exhausted. Cartman is snoring on the floor. When Stan finally gets to sleep he has a bad dream about Kyle getting lost between the cushions on his couch, squished and in danger of suffocating as Stan tears the couch apart, searching for him. He wakes up feeling panicked and cold, and he searches the floor for Cartman as his eyes adjust, confused. Cartman's sleeping bag is empty. Stan's breath catches, and he leans over the shoebox where Kyle was sleeping. He's gone.

“Kyle!” Stan shouts. He jumps out of the bed and curses himself when he realizes he could have landed on Kyle. He flips on the light and surveys the bedroom floor, but Kyle is nowhere to be found. The bedroom door is cracked open; Cartman has stolen him.

Stan races out of the room and down the stairs, his heart beating wildly and eyes on the ground, though he doubts Kyle will be there. He's in Cartman's clutches, which Stan should have foreseen: he never should have taken his eyes off Kyle while Cartman was present. That snoring, in hindsight, was obviously fake. Stan is dizzy with panic as he tries to imagine the nefarious things Cartman might be doing to helplessly miniaturized Kyle right now. He hears something from the dining room and freezes: labored breathing.

Stan grabs a heavy candlestick holder from a side table in the foyer and approaches quietly, ready to bash Cartman's head in if necessary. It's dark in the dining room, and Cartman is there: good, he hasn't gotten far. He's standing in the corner with his back to Stan, eating something. Or, no: he's licking something, moaning, his other hand in his pants. Stan's breath ices in his lungs when he realizes what is happening: Cartman is jacking off while holding little Kyle to his face, Kyle's pants pulled down and shirt pushed up, Cartman's tongue passing over Kyle's tiny body in huge swaths from his knees to his neck. Stan hoists the candlestick and creeps forward, trying to keep his composure, ready to kill.

“Ahh, god. Mhmm, fuck, Cartman. Feels _sooo_ good.”

That was Kyle. Stan freezes, the candlestick lifted over his head. Kyle is panting heatedly, his eyes closed, knees spread. His little dick is pointed up toward his belly, rock hard, and his nipples are two swollen pink pricks, glistening in the moonlight. He looks like a confection, creamy white with orange frosting, and like he's ready and willing to be eaten. Cartman sounds like he's barely restraining himself from taking a bite, grunting hungrily as he licks Kyle again and again. He's moving his tongue slowly from Kyle's legs to his chin, lingering on his dick and then his nipples, savoring him.

“Kyle?” Stan says when his horror recedes enough to allow him to speak. Kyle jerks in Cartman's hand, his eyes shooting open. Cartman grunts angrily. He turns to snarl at Stan in an animal-like way that makes Stan wonder if he'll need to use the candlestick after all. “What the fuck?” Stan shouts. “Let go of him!”

“Stan!” Kyle scrambles to pull his pants up, his breath still coming hard. “Ah – um – help! He grabbed me out of my box—”

“What!” Cartman turns back to Kyle, still snarling. “Bitch, you were begging me—”

“Shut up!” Kyle shrieks, and he punches Cartman's palm with his tiny fist. “Release me, pervert! Give me to Stan!”

“I should throw you across the room, you fucking liar!” Cartman doesn't do this, maybe because Stan has raised the candlestick again. Stan holds out his other hand and carefully takes Kyle from Cartman. Kyle is noticeably warmer than he was earlier, still panting his breath. Stan can feel the shape of Kyle's hard dick against his palm. “Quit looking at me like that,” Cartman barks when Stan continues glowering at him, unwilling to lower the candlestick. “I came down here to get food and he wanted to come with me. One thing led to another.”

“Just get out!” Kyle says. “Leave us alone.”

“Fine.” Cartman huffs. “I was gonna spooge all over you, by the way. It was just – it was all a trick! Ha, yeah, you – you were gonna be covered from head to toe in my jizz, it was gonna be hilarious—”

“Get out,” Stan says, growling the words under his breath, and this time Cartman goes, muttering to himself and slamming the front door behind him.

“Boys!” Sheila calls from upstairs. “What's going on down there?”

“Nothing!” Kyle says. His voice is small, but it carries. “Just getting, uh, a midnight snack! Going back to bed now!” He gives Stan a pleading look. Stan's head is spinning, but he can't say no to Kyle when he's scared and needy like this. He hugs Kyle to his chest and walks back upstairs with one hand cupped under him and one pressed protectively around him. “Thank you,” Kyle says softly.

“What the hell was going on down there?” Stan asks when they're closed into Kyle's room again. Kyle sighs.

“What do you think? I got hungry – I skipped dinner. He was leering into my shoebox like an evil moon, so I asked him to take me downstairs for food.”

“Why didn't you wake me!”

“Because – I don't know! Look, Stan. Cartman is gay, or whatever. He likes dicks. And so do I.” Kyle mutters this last part, looking down toward his lap. He's kneeling on Stan's palm, his pajama pants still tented by his erection. “So now you know,” he says when he peeks at Stan again. “Thanks to the fucking gnomes, and Cartman offering to lick me. I know it's gross, but. I don't know, it felt good.” Kyle is mumbling again. Stan is breathing hard through his nose, every exhale ruffling Kyle's curls.

“Kyle. I'm your best friend. And maybe I'm not all, like, decisive about my sexuality like fucking Cartman, but if you want someone to lick you, ask me. I'll lick you. Jesus, I'll lick you for hours if that's what you need.”

Kyle gapes at him. Stan doesn't think it's really all that shocking. He would be licking Kyle right now if it weren't for the fact that he's currently covered in Cartman's dried saliva.

“Are you serious?” Kyle looks skeptical. He fidgets, and Stan can tell that he's suffering with that boner. Stan's dick is starting to respond to this situation, thickening in his underwear. He swallows and puts one finger gently against Kyle's shoulder, pushing him down toward his palm. Kyle starts breathing hard again when he realizes what Stan is doing. He lies back, his head resting on the tips of Stan's fingers, and spreads his legs until his tiny socked feet are dangling on either side of Stan's wrist.

“Take off your shirt,” Stan says, wanting to see those nipples again. He's always been fond of them. Kyle lets out a shaky breath and pulls his t-shirt over his head. He shivers when it's off, and Stan moans sympathetically, placing two gentle fingertips in the center of Kyle's chest. He spreads them apart until one finger is covering each of Kyle's hard little nipples, and he rubs softly, then a little harder when Kyle moans and arches.

“Stan,” Kyle says. He sighs and closes his eyes, pressing up into Stan's touch. “God, is it – is it just 'cause I'm small?”

“What? No, I. I've always wondered.”

“Hmm?”

“Like. What kind of noises you'd make. If I was making you feel good.”

“Nnh, yeah, yes.” Kyle pushes his hips up, brushing his pajama-trapped cock against Stan's palm. “Stan, please. I'm so hard.”

“Jesus, yeah, you are.”

Stan leaves his fingers pressed to Kyle's nipples and rubs Kyle's cock with his thumb, his own dick growing rock hard at the feeling of Kyle's arousal. It's crazy, being able to cover Kyle's entire miniaturized dick with just the pad of his thumb, and Kyle goes nuts for it, moaning and grabbing Stan's thumb with both hands, holding it there so he can hump himself against it.

“Goddamn,” Stan says, realizing sadly that he wants to fuck Kyle, to be inside him. Maybe later, if they can figure out how to turn him back. For now, this is wonderful. “Do you want to, um. Take off your pants?”

“This will sound weird,” Kyle says. “But no. I feel so fucking vulnerable already. You can push them down a little, though, if you want. Or put your finger inside.”

Stan opts for that, wanting Kyle to be able to retain what little armor he has in this situation. Cartman probably yanked his pants down and stuck his tongue between Kyle's thighs without asking. Stan moves slowly, keeping his eyes locked on Kyle's, which are hazy and heavy-lidded. Kyle writhes happily when Stan pushes his thumb under the waistband of Kyle's pajama pants, moaning at the heat of Kyle's dick when they're touching, skin to skin.

“You're wet,” Stan whispers, rubbing the leaking tip. Kyle nods and whines, pulling at his curls with one hand.

“Stan,” he cries. “I want you, nghh – to fuck me, so bad.”

“I know. Dude, me too, but. Dammit.”

Kyle cries out brokenly, nodding. “It's so unfair. Why'd this have to happen now? What if I never go back to normal?”

“Shh.” Stan looks around, desperate to find something that he might stimulate Kyle with in the way that he wants. Kyle's iPod is on the bedside table. The headphones are unplugged.

“What?” Kyle says when he sees the look on Stan's face. He's plunged his hand into his pajama pants now, and he's touching himself. He looks so good like this; Stan whimpers, staring at him.

“Do, uh. Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yeah, Stan. I said so, didn't I? But I'm gonna go ahead and wager that your cock is too big for my ass, just a guess.”

“Right, but, um. I could fuck you with something else, if you really want me to.”

“Like what?” Kyle's hand goes still inside his pants. Stan sighs and reaches for the iPod headphones. He pinches the metal jack between his thumb and forefinger, showing it to Kyle. “Too big?” he says when Kyle's eyes widen.

“N-no.” Kyle's face is getting very red. He pulls his hand out of his pants and wipes sweat and pre-come on Stan's palm. “That's, uh. You want to put that in me?”

“Ah – I don't know! Only if you want me to!” Stan's cock is so hard; he needs to touch himself soon, but he wants Kyle to get off first, just wants Kyle to get what he needs.

“There's lube in the drawer,” Kyle says, pointing to the bedside table.

“Will it ruin your headphones, though?”

“Stan! I don't fucking care! I need something in my ass, uggh, god, please. That's perfect. You're a genius. And I love you, by the way.”

“Fuck,” Stan says, tears clouding his vision. “I love you, too. I wish I could kiss you.”

“Oh – you can. But I should probably bathe first. I'm covered in Cartman spit.”

“Sick, dude.”

“I know, okay, I'm sorry! I think this size thing must be affecting my sex drive. I need stimulation, Stan.”

“Well,” Stan says. He sets Kyle down on the pillow and gets the lube from the drawer. “Here it comes.”

Stan is very careful, and very envious of the cool metal phone jack as he uses it to probe experimentally at Kyle's entrance. Kyle hisses and curls his toes, egging Stan on when he hesitates. They both moan when the nub on the end of the jack pops inside.

“It doesn't hurt?” Stan asks. His heart is racing, cock screaming for attention. Kyle is still on the pillow, fully naked now, his shyness dissipated, chest heaving. He's holding his legs against his chest, angling his ass up so Stan can probe it.

“Doesn't hurt,” Kyle says. He's sweating, his cock still hard and red against his belly. “It's – it's wider than I realized, though.”

“Want me to—”

“No, it's okay. I'm just. Open really wide.” He meets Stan eyes when he says this, and Stan groans. His mouth is wet; he wants to put it all over Kyle, and almost doesn't care about the film of Cartman's grime that's left behind on his skin. Almost.

“Is this your first time?” Stan asks, worried that Cartman's dick has already traversed these waters. Kyle nods, and Stan lets out his breath, relieved.

“Losing my anal virginity to an iPod headphone jack,” Kyle says. “Sounds about right. Pretty much how my life is going in general, absurdity-wise.”

“You want it deeper?” Stan asks, not wanting Kyle's self pity to spoil the mood. Kyle sighs and nods. Stan pushes the jack in just a tiny bit further. He's soaked with sweat, too, his t-shirt stuck to his back.

“Fuck me with it,” Kyle says. “Just – shallowly, like that. Yeah. Nn _nh_ , yeah. God, that feels fucking good.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What it's like?” Stan asks. He's never stuck anything up his ass; it seems uncomfortable, mostly, but he's very much enjoying the sight of Kyle's tiny hole stretched around this metallic surrogate penis.

“It's like, ahhh, god. Like having the best itch scratched. Like my – you know, my _hole_ , um, it was just so empty and itchy and now – ahh, god, it's so good. Just – just keep going, like that. A little faster. But not deeper!”

“I'm not going to impale you, don't worry. I'm not Cartman,” Stan adds, still hurt by what he witnessed in the dining room. Kyle moans.

“He'd have killed me by now,” Kyle says. “In his haste.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Look, I'm sorry.” Kyle sits up on his elbows, and Stan pauses in his movements with the headphone jack, only the tip holding Kyle open. “I didn't think you were gay. I also didn't think I'd ever be turned into a gnome and that you'd end up fucking me with my headphones, but I guess you just never know.”

“You're not a gnome.” Stan slides the jack in again, watching Kyle's tension melt away as it sinks deeper inside him. Kyle's head falls back and he sighs, going limp in Stan's hand again. “You like that?” Stan says, his dick throbbing jealously. He wants to be in there, feeling that tight heat close around him, Kyle's muscles clenching and trying to get him in deeper.

“I like it.” Kyle nods drowsily, his hand sliding across his chest. He twists his left nipple and sighs. “Stan, I'm gonna come.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Keep fucking me with that thing, and rub my balls, too, with your finger.”

“Just the balls?”

Kyle nods. “It always makes me spurt,” he says. “When there's something, ahh, up my ass, and, and then I rub the balls.”

“You do this to yourself?” Stan is so aroused that he feels faint. He thinks of covering Kyle head to toe in his come, like pouring gravy on a biscuit, and kind of loves the idea, guiltily.

“Yes, I do, I do this to myself,” Kyle says. He groans. “But it doesn't feel like this, it's never been this good. Stan, please—”

“Shhh, okay. Shh. I'm gonna make you come now, Kyle. You need to come.”

“I do! Oh, god, I do, Stan—”

Kyle growls when he comes, but it's kitten-like and tiny, his little body spasming under Stan's touch. Again, Stan wishes he could kiss Kyle. Instead, he carefully removes the headphone jack from Kyle's ass and scoops him up with two hands, bringing Kyle to his face. Stan nuzzles him, and Kyle sort of glues himself to Stan's sticky cheek, cuddling up to the heat there.

“I'm gonna blow in my pants,” Stan says when Kyle licks him.

“Oh – wait!” Kyle sits back and regards him drowsily, rubbing at his eyes. His cock has gone soft and he's wearing nothing but his socks. “I want to help,” he says.

“Well.” Stan swallows heavily. “Um.”

“Lie on your back,” Kyle says. “And put me, you know. On it.”

“On my –”

“Yes, Stanley, on your dick. I want to hug it. I want to wrap my whole fucking body around it.”

“Oh, Jesus, yes, okay.”

Stan sets Kyle on the pillow and takes off his pajama pants, pushing his underwear down with them. His cock springs free almost painfully, blood red and embarrassingly full. Kyle groans at the sight of it, his legs falling open on the pillow. He moves over so that Stan can lie down, and crawls eagerly into Stan's hand when he offers it.

“Oh my god,” Stan says as he moves his hand down, conveying Kyle to his aching dick. “Oh my god, oh Jesus.”

“Don't have a heart attack,” Kyle says. He's grinning like a kid on Christmas morning – or Hanukkah evening, Stan supposes, though he can't remember Kyle being especially happy then. Kyle grabs hold of Stan's dick when Stan's shaking hand arrives there, and he sort of climbs onto it, wrapping his legs around the base and his arms around the shaft. Stan whimpers, his thighs twitching. This orgasm may actually kill him, but he doesn't care anymore.

“Fuck,” Stan exhales, trying not to come. He doesn't want this to end yet. Kyle is squirming on his dick and moaning happily, his eyes falling shut as he kneads Stan's foreskin and shimmies up to squeeze the shaft with his thighs.

“It's so big,” Kyle says. He drools onto Stan's dick when he speaks, licks it twice, then nuzzles his face against it. “Mhmm, I just want to marry this big fucking dick, Stan, I do.”

“This is insane,” Stan says, trying to laugh. “I'm dreaming. I must be.”

“No, it's real. God, it's so _warm_. And fucking hard, oh, Stan, _Stan_ , your dick, it's just—”

“Ky – Kyle, are you crying?”

“Shut up!” He sniffles and wipes his face on Stan's foreskin. “This is – this is a dream of mine—”

“Well. Good, um? I hope part of your dream is getting my come in your hair, 'cause I'm about to – hah, about to go off—”

“No, not yet! Do you have your phone?”

“My fuh – my phone? Kyle, you. You want me to take a picture of you with my dick?”

“I need to remember this moment! Can I bite you, just a little? It might feel good if I do it softly.”

“Oh, god, I don't know. I'm gonna come, Kyle, quit wiggling.”

“I can't help it.” Kyle moans and humps Stan's dick, his hands running up and down the shaft like he can't get enough. He scoots up to lap at the head, and Stan can't take it anymore: he comes with a scream, feeling like his spine will snap. Fortunately it doesn't, but he does takes a while to recover, remembering only after a few heavy breaths that he probably just soaked Kyle in come. He looks down at Kyle, prepared to rescue him if he's drowning. Kyle is still holding onto Stan's cock, which is throbbing and quickly becoming oversensitive. Most of his come seems to have shot onto his chest, but some has dripped down onto Kyle, making him look like he's been glazed in frosting.

“You okay?” Stan asks, offering his hand. Kyle lets go of Stan's cock, somewhat reluctantly, and crawls onto his palm.

“I'm alright. Thanks.” Kyle accepts the handkerchief he was using as a blanket and wipes his face clean. There's still some in his hair, but Stan doesn't mention it. “Are _you_ okay? That was intense. My parents might come knocking.”

“I'm fine,” Stan says. He brings Kyle up to his face and covers him in little kisses. He supposes they're actually very big kisses, from Kyle's perspective.

“What the fuck is this?”

Stan turns, startled, to see three tiny men standing on the floor, wearing conical hats. Two of them are carrying little pick axes, and the one who spoke has a wooden staff. Underpants gnomes. They look angry.

“We give you the gift of smallness and this is what you use it for?” the gnome with the staff says. “Ya fuckin' slut, look at you! You've got jizz in your hair, man! You're making us all look like assholes!”

“Wha— look, I didn't ask for this!” Kyle says. “And I – this is my – we're in love!”

“You disgust me,” the gnome says.

“Hey,” Stan says. He remembers the plan to grab a gnome and squeeze it; it's probably too late now.

“Look, forget it,” the gnome says, lifting his wooden staff. “We were gonna offer you a job, but I don't think you'd fit in at the mine.”

He waves the staff, mutters a spell, and Kyle falls into Stan's lap with a thud, full-sized again, his cock flopping onto Stan's stomach. They stare at each other, frozen. Suddenly the fact that they are naked and pressed together is very weird.

“See ya, assholes,” the gnomes call, and then they're gone, singing a song about work as they disappear into Kyle's closet.

“Um,” Kyle says, his voice soft. He places his hands on Stan's chest, flexing his fingers. “Well. That's a relief.”

“Kyle!” Stan says. He grabs Kyle and hugs him close, rubbing his back. “Oh, thank god. You're okay!”

Kyle laughs, and Stan can hear how relieved he is, and can feel it when Kyle shivers happily against his chest. He puts his arms around Stan and squeezes him, moaning.

“I really need a shower,” he says. “Cartman's giant tongue was on me. And apparently there's come in my hair.”

“You're okay,” Stan says again, rocking Kyle in his arms. Kyle sits back and smiles at Stan, uncertainty creeping back into his eyes.

“They're right, though, aren't they?” he says. “I'm a crusty whore.”

“What! No, they're not fucking right! C'mere.”

Stan kisses him, and Kyle sighs into his mouth, opening his lips for Stan's tongue. Kyle's breath is a little stale; Stan supposes he hasn't brushed his teeth since he got shrunk. But he's a good kisser, and this completeness, holding Kyle with two arms instead of one hand, feels even better than having Kyle wrapped bodily around his cock. Stan supposes he can still have that, in a sense.

“We should tell your parents,” Stan says. He's starting to get hard again.

“Oh, them.” Kyle sighs. “Yeah, hang on. C'mere.”

Five minutes later, Sheila walks in on them having sex and proceeds to give Kyle a harsh lecture about needing therapy for his sex addiction. Kyle cries. At dawn, Stan runs a bath for him and washes Kyle's back while he sits in the steaming water, sniffling.

“Maybe she's right,” Kyle says. “I mean, how could I even be thinking of sex at a time like that? But it was all I could think about it.”

“Well, you're a seventeen-year-old boy, and I was thinking of it, too. And so was Cartman. Does that mean we're all sex addicts?”

“I'd say it's possible.”

Stan climbs into the bath with Kyle, washes his hair for him, and tries to convince him that they can be sex addicts together, if that's the case.

“No Cartman, though,” Stan says. He reaches into the water and wraps a possessive hand around Kyle's soft cock. “I mean it.”

“Like I ever would have let him lick me if I'd known you were offering.”

At school on Monday, Stan walks to his locker with Kyle's hand clasped in his, and he gives Cartman a gloating smile as they pass him.

“How'd you turn him back?” Cartman asks.

“With true love,” Stan says. “Like Sleeping Beauty. Or Snow White. You know how it goes.”

“Yeah, so Kyle is a Disney princess? Sounds about right.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Kyle says. His face is all pink. “You're jealous.”

“Ha! Jealous? Of you two? _Ha_!”

Stan puts his arm around Kyle and leads him away, feeling like he really is in a fairy tale. So what if their version of a happy ending involves sex with Apple hardware and a gnome calling the princess a slut? It's still pretty perfect, he thinks.


End file.
